


your shifting tableaux

by apostolosian (mercutioes)



Series: divinity sublime [2]
Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Group Sex, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgy, roleplay?? kinda??, this is the filthiest thing i've written in a long time asldjfsdf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 19:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14817149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/apostolosian
Summary: samothes arrives at the plains of celebration, a worshipper like any other, and samot gives him his due welcome





	your shifting tableaux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imperialhare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhare/gifts).



> ... _I hope you’ll visit one day. We’d have such fun, you and I and my followers. I’d have you visit in disguise, one of the many here to worship, and you would worship , my love. You would kneel at my feet and kiss my fingers like all the rest and maybe I’d take a special liking to you. Maybe I’d pull you up onto the throne, onto my lap, and I’d make a demonstration out of you. I’d let everyone see how pretty you are when you come with my hand around your cock and my lips on your throat._
> 
> _And all my assemblage would be so envious of you, god-favored as you would be. Perhaps I’d let them all touch you too, see for themselves what makes you so special. You’d fall apart under all of us, skin and mouths and teeth on all sides. I’d have you come more times than you could stand and then come again, and again after that, until you can’t even speak except in the murmuring, moaning language of the Plains._
> 
> _That all said - I cannot wait to have you alone again._
> 
> _Yours in leisure,_
> 
> _S._

The Plains of Celebration are far from the shining city of Marielda.  Long, rolling hills covered in the softest grass under the bluest sky, always just warm enough to walk barefoot but not so warm as to burn your skin.  A breeze, always light. Tents spot the landscape in red and gold and royal blue, huge things big enough to rival the biggest houses in the biggest cities on Hieron.

And it is here that, once a year, Samot journeys and revels and lets his followers pay worship.  They celebrate until they are done, until the work is complete — sometimes a week, sometimes a month — and then Samot returns to Marielda, accompanied by his retinue.

Samothes lets him go alone, taking the period of separation to work without distraction.  They are gods, after all — they have thousands of years to be together and Samot has his duties to his domains just as Samothes does.

This time, however…

In one of his letters, Samot had made him an offer — come, journey, be one of my worshippers, like any other.

It is an offer he cannot refuse.  Besides, he’s curious.

He can feel it the moment he crosses over from neutral ground into Samot’s realm, the shiver of power over his skin.  The simple cotton robes he wears — of mortal make, not his divine vestments — feel just the slightest bit heavier on his shoulders.  His grasp on their magic slips — not entirely, but enough for him to notice.

His husband always was possessive, despite his jurisdiction.

He approaches the main tent, shining golden in the sun, its fabric panels shifting slightly with the breeze.  There are people lounging and milling about in diaphanous silks or in no clothing at all, some tangled together and some alone.  Samothes smiles, fond — Samot is partial to spectacle, and this is no different. A man, tall and broad and dressed in draping golden robes that contrast with his dark skin, approaches him.

“Are you here to worship our lord?” he asks, and Samothes smiles.

“I am.  Will you take me to him?”

He follows the man into the tent.  In an antechamber, he and a couple other attendants slide the robes from Samothes’ shoulders, leaving him fully nude.  It’s not uncomfortable — the air is warm against his bare skin.

“This way,” the man says, beckoning him through a parting in the fabric of the tent.  They emerge into a huge room, shafts of light from slits in the tent high above them cutting across the space and lighting everything in a rich golden hue.  There are people scattered all around on opulent cushions, tangled together in twos and threes and fours, hands moving lazily and without urgency.

Samot himself sits cross-legged on a large cushion at the center of the room, languid and dressed only in a golden circlet about his hair.  A woman’s head rests on his lap, and he runs fingers through her dark hair. Another devotee sits behind him, chin hooked over his shoulder.

“Worshipper,” Samot says, and there’s a smile in his voice, a joke shared between the two of them.  A game to be played — none of these people know who Samothes is, not when he appears as mortal as any of them.  Simply another stranger, here to exalt and celebrate and revel in wine and touch.

“My lord,” Samothes replies, false reverence in his tone.  “What may I do to please you?”

Samot hums, contemplative, before standing.  The people draped over him tangle with each other instead, watching rapt.  The whole room observes them, languid and hazy.

“Approach,” Samot says, and though it’s a game, the lazy demand makes Samothes shiver.  He does with slow steps, never breaking eye contact with his husband. When he gets close enough, Samot stops him with a hand on his chest.  He stalks a tight circle around Samothes as if inspecting him, judging his merit. Finally, he faces Samothes again.

“You are a newcomer here.”  Samot spreads his arms, his smile beatific but with a wicked edge.  “Let us welcome you.” A murmur sweeps through the room, but Samothes almost doesn’t notice because Samot cups his face between both hands and kisses him softly.

“Do you want this?” he whispers, so soft that none of the others in the room could possibly hear.  Samothes nods and Samot smiles wider.

“Come,” he says, stepping back and addressing the room at large.  “Welcome our new companion.”

There's perfect silence for a moment, no one wanting to be the first to move.  Then, one brave soul breaks from the crowd. She's a tall woman with dark hair cropped short and piercings in every possible place — lips and nipples and tongue and even the flash of silver at the join of her thighs.

“Come, lay back,” she says, smiling as she guides him to the floor to rest on the scattered cushions there.  She runs her hands over Samothes’ bare chest, firm, before beckoning another over. “Hermio,” she calls, “join me.”

A man breaks from the crowd at her call, pale and graying at the temples, the angles of his face sharp and beautiful.

“As you wish, Ciosa,” he says with the teasing lilt of a shared joke.  He slips behind Samothes and props him up against his chest. Like this, he can easily see the hunger in Samot's gaze.  It makes him shiver. Ciosa swings a leg over Samothes’ thighs, turns to look over her shoulder.

“What shall we do with him, my lord?” she asks, rocking her hips against him.  He's half hard already and he can't hold back a quiet gasp. Samot hums, considering.

“Get him ready for us,” he says, finally, a wicked edge to his words.  “If he is to have a  _ proper  _ welcome, he must be thoroughly prepared.”

“Of course, my lord,” Ciosa says, turning back to catch Samothes’ lips in a long, languorous kiss, Hermio’s low chuckle in his ear.  Samothes loses himself in the pleasant haze of gentle touch, of hands all over him — along his hips and the insides of his thighs, playing at his chest until he moans, fingers slipping into and out of his mouth.  Ciosa guides Samothes’ hand down to the apex of her thighs and shudders as he plays with the jewelry hidden there.

“Oh, he's quite good, my lord,” she says, shaky and grinning.  Samot laughs prettily, the sound accompanied by a whimper. Samothes looks past Ciosa to see that he's got a gorgeous boy spread on his lap, fingers playing at the boy's cock idly.  He's flushed and shivering at the tease, obviously desperate. It's an exquisitely pretty sight, though Samothes still has to press down a twinge of possessive jealousy. Samot beckons with his free hand at a follower to his left.

“Demeas,” he commands, “bring oil.”

A young person breaks from the crowd, carrying a small pitcher, draped in diaphanous white fabric.  The crowd itself shifts and undulates like a living thing — Samothes can see groups breaking off, tangling together and touching lazily as they watch.  The tent fills with murmurs and sighs, the air heating like an aphrodisiac all its own. Ciosa moves off his lap, spreading his legs instead with hands on his knees.

“May I?” asks Hermio, lips against his ear, and Samothes feels blunt fingers at his entrance, slick with oil.

“Yes,” he breathes, shifting and pressing back to give the man a better angle.  Hermio breaches him with one, humming in surprise when he finds that Samothes isn’t all that tight.  He’d stretched himself on the way to the Plains, knowing what would await him, so he opens easily for two fingers, then three.  Samothes groans, forces his eyes open to look around. Samot’s become distracted, surrounded by four lovers all touching him and each other, a tangle of skin.

More immediately in front of him, Ciosa’s beckoned over another woman similarly pierced, to join her in playing with the oil-bearer — Demeas, Samothes remembers.  Ciosa takes hold of Demeas’ chin, makes them look at Samothes.

“Does that look nice, sweetheart?” she asks Demeas.  They bite their lip, nodding wordlessly with a furious blush on their cheeks.  Ciosa laughs and takes some of the oil for herself, opens Demeas up on her fingers while the other woman kisses them quiet and plays with their chest.   _ They’re beautiful _ , thinks Samothes, gasping when Hermio grazes his prostate.  Everyone here is beautiful, everywhere he looks. To his right, two women have a third between them, her legs spread wide and her companions’ hands playing between.  To his left, one man rides another, head thrown back and noises bright and unmuffled. The crowd shivers and moves as if breathing, and with Demeas’ quiet moans in his ears and Ciosa’s delighted, teasing praise and Hermio’s sure fingers stroking deliberately inside of him, it’s easy to let himself sink into a hazy, unthinking state, made pliant by pleasure.

“I think our lord has taken a special liking to you,” Hermio says.  Samothes focuses back on Samot to see that his husband is staring at him, watching his every move with the eyes of a predator.  He has lovers all around him but his focus is single-minded, intense enough to make Samothes shudder. Hermio chuckles.

“He’s ready, my lord,” he calls up to Samot, shifting Samothes so Samot can see Hermio’s fingers in him, spreading him open.  He feels the prickle of a multitude of eyes on him, can hear Demeas whimpering when Ciosa stills inside them. Samot smiles wide, raising his voice so all can hear.

“Then let him be welcomed, and let him welcome us in return,” he proclaims.

It’s clearly a familiar ritual, as the words set multiple people into motion — a few begin to make a nest of cushions in the middle of the tent, while others bring oils and scarves and scatter dried, sweet-smelling flower petals.  Unfamiliar hands bring Samothes to his feet and over to the center of the room, arranging him on his knees on the cushions. Someone ties scarves around his wrists, another at his ankles — he’s not bound  _ to _ anything yet, but easily could be, if someone desired.

He’s been positioned so he directly faces Samot.  Even now, his husband takes his breath away, especially like this — surrounded by followers, idly stroking his palms over them like they’re his adoring pets, eyes full of banked heat and barely-restrained hunger.

“Will you welcome us?” he asks, voice a low, rich buzz.

“Yes,” Samothes replies.

From there it’s a haze of skin and hands and lips and sensation.  As soon as he gives assent, someone presses up behind him, kissing down his spine and pressing fingers into him to make sure he’s loose enough.  Someone kisses his collarbone, another runs nails down his torso, another pets at his thighs. He bites his lip, eyes falling shut without his permission.

“Let us hear you,” Samot says.  “There’s no need for modesty here.”

Whoever’s behind him takes that moment to enter him slowly and he groans, head tilting back and body sagging.  There are hands to catch him, hands along the taut line of his throat and on his chest and around his wrists and he’s caught, overwhelmed, taken in as many ways as it’s possible to be taken.

It might be moments, it might be hours.  The person fucking him finishes and pulls out with a kiss to his shoulder.  Samothes makes a broken noise as they’re immediately replaced by another person who bends to lick at the come dripping out of him, the heat of their tongue enough to make him squirm.  Someone takes his cock in their mouth as the other eats him out and another sucks at his chest and he comes for the first time that evening, crying out and clutching at whoever he can reach.

The people around him move away only to be replaced by a fresh wave of bodies, of hands and lips and teeth.  Ciosa might be among him, or Hermio or Demeas, but he can’t be sure. Someone enters him, fucks him hard while another takes his cock into their throat.  Two fingers in his mouth, then three, and he mouths at them sloppily without knowing to whom they belong. He comes for a second time, shivery and oversensitive — he  _ should _ be sated but he stays hard and desperate by some magic of Samot’s or of the Plains themselves.  All the while, he’s aware of Samot’s eyes on him, of Samot’s low murmur across the room, the particular timbre of his pleasure that Samothes knows so intimately.

He’s taken by a woman next, tall and broad and well-muscled with a wooden cock strapped to her hips.  With the help of another, she pulls his wrists to the small of his back, wrapping the scarves around her hand to keep them there.  Samothes can’t hold back the noises anymore, has slipped so far into that mindless space that he’s barely aware that he’s whining on every exhale, wordless and thin.

She bends him over as she enters him, shoving him by the neck so his face is in the lap of another follower who guides him onto their cock with gentle hands on his face.  He’s caught, he  _ can’t _ , there are more hands on his back and between his thighs and in his hair and he can  _ still feel Samot’s eyes on him _ .

When he comes this time there are tears in his eyes and still the people keep touching, fucking, kissing him.  They’re endless, all here to take part in the constant ebb and flow of pleasure, the magic haze of the Plains. They move him onto his back so someone can ride him while others hold him spread by the scarves tied around his limbs, holding him still as he writhes through his pleasure, coming so hard he swears his vision goes white.

And the hands and the lips keep arriving, more and more and  _ more… _

When Samothes is nothing but a raw, throbbing nerve, a mess of skin and sweat and practically covered in come, Samot puts an end to it.

“Stop,” he commands, voice piercing the haze of the tent.  “Let me see him.”

The people around him guide him to his knees, again facing Samot.  His husband rises — still immaculate, still the most beautiful creature Samothes has ever seen and will ever see — and steps over to him, light on bare feet.

“You’ve done well, worshipper,” he says, kissing Samothes slowly, mindful of the swelling of his lips.  The praise goes shivering down Samothes’ spine. Without breaking the kiss, Samot bends to run his hands over every part of Samothes.  His delicate fingers catch on the swollen rim of Samothes’ entrance and he gasps into Samot’s mouth — it’s painful, raw from being taken so many times in a row.  Samot smiles, pulling back slightly.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, pressing one finger inside.  “Oh, you’re so  _ open _ , love.”  Samothes wants to respond in words but all he can do is pant and stare up at Samot.  He pushes a second finger inside, strokes over his abused prostate and even now he groans and shivers, somehow still hard and dripping.  Samot reaches down to wrap a hand around his cock — he doesn’t need lube, Samothes is so slick with come and sweat and oil already.

“Please, Samot, I  _ can’t — _ ”  His voice breaks, the thought of coming again almost unbearable, but Samot fucks harder into his gaping hole and twists his hand the way he knows Samothes likes and smiles against his lips.

“You can and you will,” he whispers, possessive and hungry.  “Your last one is  _ mine _ .”

And Samothes knows he has no choice but to give Samot exactly what he demands.

It only takes a little longer with Samot’s hands on him and in him for Samothes to shudder and bend and spill over Samot’s fist.  He has little left to give, but it’s enough for Samot. He brings his slick hand up to Samothes’ mouth, the demand clear. Samothes sloppily licks it clean, still out of his mind with pleasure and exhaustion, and he whimpers when Samot takes his hand away and licks into his mouth instead, tasting Samothes’ come on his own tongue.

Samot steps back, makes a grand gesture to the assembled, rapt crowd.

“He has paid worship admirably,” he announces.  “Bring him to my chambers.”

Samot’s gone in a flourish of sheer silks.  Attendants bring damp cloths to clean him, blessedly cool against his flushed, oversensitive skin.  They drape him in soft, gold robes and lead him to an antechamber off the main tent that must serve as Samot’s personal rooms.  They leave him at the entrance, bowing as they retreat.

Samothes pushes aside the curtain to enter the room.  At its center is a lavish bed and on it… his husband waits, ethereally beautiful.  He wastes not a second in climbing onto the bed and kissing the breath from Samot, taking comfort in the familiarity of his touch.  Samot laughs, pulling back after a moment to look at Samothes properly.

“Was that everything you wanted?” he asks, petting through Samothes’ hair with delicate fingers.

“It was,” Samothes murmurs, burying his face in Samot’s chest.  “Thank you.” Samot laughs, fond, pressing a kiss to Samothes’ forehead.

“How lucky I am to have you, my husband,” he says, gentle.  “My most devoted follower.”

“You know I’d follow you anywhere.”  His words are mumbled and faint — the exhaustion is catching up with him, his thoughts sluggish and hard to form.

“I know you would,” Samot says, pulling the sheets up over the both of them.  “I know you would.”

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR THE ART TRADE LINDA ILY


End file.
